


A Dire Job

by AquitaineQueen24



Category: Penny Dreadful (TV)
Genre: As Brona sat not dying, yet - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-02
Updated: 2014-06-02
Packaged: 2018-02-03 05:17:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1732517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AquitaineQueen24/pseuds/AquitaineQueen24
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It’s a St Christopher’s medal. You wear it if you’re travelling out into the world, to ask for his blessing. Protection from evil.”</p><p>She lets his fingers brush the medal before she lets it drop and leans back again, trying not to look as if she’s afraid. “Truth is, been times I’ve thought of just pawning it. Christopher’s done a dire fucking job when it comes to me.”</p><p>What might have happened if Brona happened to meet a certain stagehand at the Grand Guignol, as she sat busy not dying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Dire Job

**Author's Note:**

> Brona swears a lot in this. Sorry. Actually, not sorry; she’s a prostitute living in the underbelly of London who’s dying of tuberculosis. I should think that gives her license to say exactly what she thinks.

Brona’s mopping her eyes and trying to breathe more easy, preparing to pinch some colour into her cheeks and set out to find next week’s rent, when the side door of the theatre opens and a stagehand comes out, stops at the sight of her, then comes onward.

She’s not so far gone being pissed at Ethan that she can’t size up this new possible customer. Tall, and he looks strong, but with a face like that the only way he’ll  _ever_  get a bit of cunt is if he pays for it. From the way he peers through his lank hair at her, almost as if he expects her to laugh or scream outright, she can tell he’d never dare to ask even if his purse was overflowing and she was desperate for some coin.

Poor bastard. There was a time when, if she saw him on a street, she’d hurry away before he got too close. But those times are over; and anyway, aren’t people running from  _her_  now? So she smiles at him, but maybe she shouldn’t have because he just seems to fold into himself and stare down at the tools in his hands.

He sets to work cleaning something, thinks he’s being subtle when he looks at her out of the corner of his eye. She watches him, and when she thinks she can speak again - without bringing up part of her gizzard or bursting into tears - she says, “Fine performance tonight.”

“Mr Brand and the troupe worked hard on it.” She’s surprised; he sounds more like a toff, like Mr Gray, than stagehands she’s met in the past, and she’s met a fair few. Not a bad voice. Pity it belongs to such a face. “I take it that you liked it?” he goes on.

“T’were  _grand_ ,” Brona says as she stretches out her legs. “Such a pretty building, and blood n’ gore all over t’place. Might just make up for the right  _pisser_  the rest’ve me evening’s turning into.”

He looks like he might want to ask more, but stops himself and turns back to whatever he’s doing. She’s in the mood to keep talking, though, so she goes on, “D’you get to watch the show yourself, or are you too busy backstage and such?”

“I catch glimpses of it. From up in the flies.”

“They let you act?”

“No.” He doesn’t sound too disappointed about that.

“Shame. Don’t care for actors, but still. Think you’d be a fine one, stamping ‘bout the stage and shouting and so on. Might make a good monster, like that wolf man.”

He stiffens at that and turns about, pain in his face, bitterness in his voice,  “A monster? _”_

 _Yes,_ you, _and can you blame me for thinking so? You look like a body someone dug up, or something from a penny dreadful_ , Brona’s mind stutters. But Brona’s bloody mouth, though it’s gotten her in trouble sometimes, also knows how to get her out of it. “I’m sorry. I’m  _sorry_. I didn’t mean to cause offense.”

The man looks confused now, the anger leaving him. “It’s no…” He doesn’t seem to know how to finish that sentence. He tries again. “It’s no matter.”

But it  _does_  matter, she can see that now, because other people have clearly been calling him monster really and truly, or if not that then things just as bad. All because of his looks. Now he’s in the light she can see just how bad it is, skin paler than milk, pale as snow with those terrible scars standing out, dark lips, and eyes yellow as a bloody cat’s.  _Jesus,_  she hopes he wasn’t born like that. The thought of this poor fucker having to put up with whatever shit’s been flung his way ever since he was small is a horrible one.

He seems to have calmed down now, but she shifts the conversation in another direction. “How’d y’come to work for this place, anyway?”

He laughs, in a right ugly way. “I was picked up off the streets.”

“…I take it that’s not an expression?”

“No. And you, how did you come to  _grace_  the Grand Guignol with your presence this evening?”

Brona gets the impression she’s being mocked, but that really doesn’t bother her. Ugly bastard’ll have to work hard if he wants to hurt her, after what happened earlier. “Oh, came with a friend. Then  _his_  friend and an old friend of  _mine_  arrived and it all turned into a bloody mess until I had enough of it.”

“And now you go to look for another  _friend?_ ”

Now she definitely knows she’s being mocked, and it manages to hurt after all. “What, you think a woman like  _me_  can’t have true friends?” She digs his nails into the box and looks at the opposite wall, blinking away the tears. Fucking Ethan. Fucking Gray. “Well, maybe we can’t. Whores aren’t, aren’t supposed to have  _friends._  We only have people who think they can save our souls or want to stick their cocks up us. And they all despise us anyway. We’re really meant to throw ourselves in the river when we finally get sick of it all.”

She sees him come closer out the corner of her eye. “I apologise. I should not have said that.”

“Yes. Well.” She sniffs, wipes the snot and whatever tears are squeezing out away. She’s sworn to herself she won’t think of the river, or the arsenic or a bit of mirror to her wrists, but oh, sometimes on the dark nights when her customer's gone and she’s left to stare up at the ceiling wondering  _how long, how long have I left?_ she can’t  **help**  but think of them and how easy it would be.

“May I ask you something?” he says, all at once.

“Yes?” It’s more a question of her own than an answer, but he seems to take courage from it and ploughs on.

“What is that about your neck? You cling onto it when you are worried or upset.”

Of course, she hadn’t even noticed she’d been doing it, it’s become such a reflex for her. She holds it out for him to see better, and manages not to shake as he peers closer. “It’s a St Christopher’s medal. You wear it if you’re travelling out into the world, to ask for his blessing. Protection from evil.”

She lets his fingers brush the medal before she lets it drop and leans back again, trying not to look as if she’s afraid. “Truth is, been times I’ve thought of just pawning it. Christopher’s done a dire fucking job when it comes to me.”

And of course just then another cough hits her.

One, two, three times the pain rips through her. In the parts of her mind where she isn’t focused on the pain and the spasms she’s thinking

_Will it be now? Will it happen now? Will I die now?_

_Let it happen now._

Even with the hope she tries to keep in her heart and mind, in truth she’d really rather prefer to drop dead in the street one day...however messy, painful, downright terrifying it might be to choke on her own blood. Better that than to get sicker and sicker, have the customers _(Ethan)_ growing disgusted and shying away, dwindling at last to nothing in her sweat ridden bed – always assuming the landlord doesn’t turn her out onto the street by that point anyway. She’s accepted she’s dying, but let it at least be quick.

_Will it be now?_

But the last cough rattles up some blood and then she’s done, for now, still alive,  _I’m still alive, thank God for that, oh_ God _why can’t you let me die and be done with the whole fucking thing?_

But  _no_. She’s alive, and she’ll fight for that every step of the way.

 She fishes for the cloth and catches him staring at her. He hasn’t darted back from her coughs, or if he had he’s returned and come closer, his yellow eyes intense. She’s feels like she’s being undressed - not of her clothes but of her skin as he sees through her flesh and bone, right down to the heart inside of her and the lungs that are shredding themselves to bits and taking her with them.

“Tuberculosis,” he says, soft and almost sad.

“Aye. Like I said. A dire, fucking job.”

“How long have you been suffering from it?”

“Fair while now.” She doesn’t feel like talking about it, reminds her too much of how she met Ethan. “And how about you? You sickening for something?”

He looks away. “I am. But not in the way you are.”

“Good. Wouldn’t wish this on anyone.” She wipes her mouth, stows the cloth away and stands up. “I’ll not keep you from your work any longer. I’ll be off now; it’s a young night still.” She looks up to where the stars might be if the London smog weren’t in the way, sighs and pulls her shawl more about her. “Hope you have a good night, Mr…?”

“Caliban.”

She’s heard that name somewhere before, but she can’t for the life of her think where right now; sounds a fair strange name for parents to call their babby in any case. But she smiles as she says, “Pleasure talking to you, Mr Caliban.” And she thinks that it actually has been; she’s been able to let some of her own bitterness drain out in the presence of this big, ugly, actually rather shy man.

“Wait, please!” he calls after her. When she turns round he’s looking more nervous and awkward than ever, and for a moment she doesn’t know how she could find him ugly. “May I know your name?”

“Brona,” she tells him, and heads for the night, her job and what’s left of her life.


End file.
